


The Proposal

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just wanted to come home and relax.  Watch the game.  Maybe get laid.  Is that too much to ask?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's Smallfandomfest. Prompt: "proposal"

John bought the house when he was twenty-two, the same year that he graduated from the academy and made Holly Gennero his wife. It was a one storey bungalow with an unfinished basement in what was not the best part of Brooklyn then and still isn’t, but he loved it just the same.

The grey carpet in the living room covers the disaster that occurred when John figured he could stain the old hardwood himself. He had better luck putting together the glider for the back porch, and he’s pretty sure John Junior was conceived there, Holly warm and pliant in his hands and the moonlight glinting off her auburn hair and the long pale line of her neck.

The house is the only thing he got in the divorce. It was the only thing he wanted.

* ~ * ~ *

“Ow! Fuck!”

“Shit, sorry man.” Matt reaches around John for his toothbrush, squeezes a generous amount of toothpaste onto the brush before turning on the tap and looking at John. “Was that your bad shoulder?”

“Yes, that was my bad--” John grits his teeth, rotates his neck slowly and takes a breath. “Hand me the shaving cream.”

Matt flicks off the tap before passing over the container, then turns his attention to the mirror. John’s never known a person who studies himself more while brushing his goddamn teeth.

“I need that,” John says, hand full of foam, indicating the tap with his chin.

“There’s actually a water shortage in this country, John. Don’t know if you’re aware. Leaving the tap running when you’re not actually using the water is just a-- okay then, fine, whatever,” he says when John scowls at him and gives the tap a vicious twist, leaving a long smear of white foam in his wake. “Just don’t come crying to me when all the fresh water is gone and you’re--”

“It’s too early for a fucking lecture.”

“Pass over my brush,” Matt says. “I know you won’t be needing that.”

John grimaces at him at he tosses it over. Kid’s a regular comedian. He leans forward to the mirror, positions the razor _just so_ … and then barely avoids getting a bristle in the eye. “Jesus!”

“Sorry.”

He finishes up as quickly as he can, figures he can go over his face again once he gets to the precinct before his meeting with the captain. He wipes down and snags his own toothbrush, but then Matt is there, leaning over the sink to gargle and…

“FUCK!”

“Jesus, Matt.” John grabs at his arm, turns him around quickly. “You okay?”

Matt rubs at the sore spot on his chest and groans. “Shit, yeah. Yeah. Just wow, that would be a really sucky way to die, you know? And what a crappy obit. Matthew Farrell. Faced down terrorists intent on global Armageddon. Killed by a toothbrush to the solar plexus.”

John presses a quick kiss to his temple. “You’re okay,” he says, then jumps nimbly back to avoid an elbow to his side. “Matt!”

Matt frowns at him as he pulls over the shaving cream. “Excuse me for needing to shave, too.”

“Yeah, those four hairs ya got sproutin’ there are getting unruly, Matthew.”

“I’ll have you know that this is a style, McClane,” Matt says as he spreads a liberal amount of foam on the lower half of his face.

John bites back his comment about overcompensation. “A style,” he says dryly.

“You’re just lucky that I prefer the clean-shaven look right now, because I could grow a beard that would make ZZ Top proud. And don’t even try to tell me you don’t know who that is, I’ve seen the vinyl in your record cabinet.”

Only Matt and Holly know about John’s unreasoning soft spot for _Sharp Dressed Man_ , and John hopes to keep it that way.

There is a moment of comfortable silence, the only sound the rasp of Matt’s razor and the swish of the brush on John’s teeth. Matt finishes up first -- no surprise there, John thinks -- and wipes his face down before dropping the towel on the floor at their feet. Then John bends toward the sink at the same moment that Matt reaches for his asthma medication, and later John thinks that what happens next was almost inevitable.

“Oh fuck, you just SPIT ON ME!”

* * *

John gets up early the next morning so he can shave in peace. His face is covered in shaving cream when Matt shoulders open the door and stumbles into the room, hair sleep tousled and eyes bleary. John resists the urge to shove that ridiculous hair into place only because his fingers are covered in foam and the kid would not be amused. To say that Matt is not a morning person is an understatement.

“Gotta piss,” Matt says apologetically.

John presses his lips together, slides the razor in an unerringly straight path down his cheek before meeting Matt’s eyes in the mirror. “So piss,” he says. When Matt slants him a look, he grimaces. “Christ, Matt, I’ve seen it.”

“John--”

“Touched it, even. Licked it, sucked it, nibbled--”

“Get the fuck out of the bathroom!”

Yeah, Matt’s definitely not a morning person.

* * *

“Don’t put in too much cayenne.”

“I won’t.”

“You always put in too much cayenne. Less is more, kid.”

“Look. It’s my gramma’s recipe, okay? I put in the amount of cayenne it says to put in in the recipe. No more, no less. And no less is more.”

John decides to drop the subject. When it comes to cayenne, it‘s a losing fucking battle. “Move over,” he says instead. “I need the cutting board.”

“Shit, you put the cutting board over there?”

“That’s where it _belongs_ , so yes, I put it over there.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “Then hold on, ‘cause I’ve got to--”

“Can’t you just prep that over--” John looks around the kitchen, rubs a hand over his chin.

“Over WHERE?” Matt huffs out. “If you can find another place for me to be, please tell me. Because I only see a limited amount of counter space here and you’ve still got your paperwork spread all over the goddamn table, so please, John, _tell me_ where you’d like me to move this prep work so that you can have the room to get to your fucking cutting board in your fucking cupboard. I’d love to hear it.”

John studies Matt for a moment before squaring his shoulders and walking to the table. He picks up the phone, arches a brow. “Thai or Chinese?” he asks.

Matt tosses his wooden spoon into the sink and grins at John across the room. “Thai. And make sure you get a double portion of Tom Yum soup. It’s got lots of cayenne.”

* * * 

It’s been a long day and John just wants to put his feet up and watch the last half of the game.

He drops the keys on the table in the entryway, shrugs out of jacket and holster before carefully removing the clip from his gun. The house is dark but for a faint light coming from the living room, and he tugs off his shoes before padding to the doorway, watches as Matt zips between three computers and a variety of devices that John couldn’t name if he had a gun to his head. The squeak of the castors on the thick plastic chair-mats that Matt has plastered all over the floor at one end of the room sound loud next to the whirr of the computer fans. As he watches, Matt pauses in front of one of the monitors, eyes intent and focused. He licks his bottom lip once, slowly, and when John’s dick gives an interested twitch he immediately changes his plans for the evening. He can watch a game any night.

John steps quietly into the room, intending to bend down behind Matt’s chair and wrap his arms around the kid’s shoulders. Lean down to kiss the side of his neck, slide his hands leisurely down Matt’s surprisingly strong arms to lift his hands gently away from the keyboard. Lure him away from the flicker of the monitors and into their bed.

He’s so absorbed in this little mental image that when his toe catches on the edge of the first chair-mat and he crashes into the bookcase, he stumbles so suddenly that he only has a confused picture of Matt whirling around in a blur of pale face and too-long hair. Then his ankle turns and he’s almost down, smashing his knee into one of the bookshelves with a bright flare of pain.

“Shit! John, are you okay?”

“MotherFUCK,” John grunts as he reaches out to the coffee table with a flailing right arm to catch himself. His hand lands instead on some sort of oversized elf with exaggerated pecs and plastic formed yellow hair. He stares dumbly at the thing before shoving it away, watches it skid across the table and tumble to the floor with intense satisfaction.

“Did you…? Are you okay? Did you hurt anything?

“Jesus fuck, Matthew!” John yells. He staggers to his feet, pushes past the hovering kid to kick out at a random power cord. “Can‘t walk across the goddamn living room without killing myself!”

“Okay, that was not--”

“You got dolls,” John rages, oblivious, “migrating into my fucking living room. Fucking plastic sheeting everywhere--”

“They’re not dolls, how many times do I have to--”

“Fuck!” John flops down into the sofa, rubs at his sore knee. He turns his gaze heavenward. “Just wanted to come home and relax. Watch the game. Maybe get laid. Is that too much to ask?”

The only response is the continuing buzz of the computer fans. Then the sofa dips as Matt unceremoniously flops down beside him. “Want me to get you an ice pack?”

John swivels his neck around slowly to glare at him.

“No? Okay. Okay, what will make it better, John? Just let me know. Heating pad?” Matt slips a little closer, lays a warm palm purposefully on his thigh and arches one bushy brow. “Hand job?”

John’s mouth twitches before he can help himself. “You’re getting closer, kid.”

“Oh yeah?” Matt says. He shifts his hand a little closer, brushes his fingers lightly against the bulge in John’s pants, and just that deft touch is enough to make John’s dick stand up and take notice. “Hmmm,” he says amusedly, “what’s this?”

John can’t help himself. He wraps his hand around Matt’s neck and pulls the kid into a kiss even as he’s using his other arm to tug him into his lap. Fuck the sore knee.

“You know, John,” Matt says when they finally part, both a little breathless, “if you wanted to get my attention all you had to do was come over and kiss me.”

John rolls his eyes.

* * *

“Got a proposal for you.”

“Oh. Oh hey, John. Not that I’m not touched, you know, really, because I am. And it means a lot to me that you’re that committed to me, to _us_ , it really does. But that whole walking down the aisle thing, exchanging vows in front of family and friends?” Matt wrinkles his nose. “So not me. I’m more of a behind the scenes kind of guy. You know that dude, at every wedding, who takes advantage of the open bar and ends up with vomit on his tie and piss on his shoes and has to be escorted out by the bride’s really big cousin who‘s done time? Yeah, that’s me. And honestly, have you thought about the commute from a house in the suburbs? It’d be a bitch. And picket fences are notoriously difficult to whitewash. Oh! And the whole dog thing. I’m… yeah… I’m allergic.” He makes an elaborately apologetic face. “So the whole thing really wouldn’t work.”

John sighs heavily. “Are you done, smartass?”

Matt grins. “Think so, yeah.”

“Okay then, hear me out. Why don’t we move all of your shi… your computer stuff and your dol…toy… collectibles into the spare room? Wouldn’t take long to clear out the boxes that are in there, most of them are just filled with junk anyway. We could do it tonight. And when we’re done, I’ll order us some pizza.”

Matt frowns. “What?”

“Slap a coat of paint on the walls, it’d be--”

“Okay. Let me get this straight. You want me to move everything I own into an 8 by 10 room, basically live out of a fucking storage closet, and for that I get…. pizza.”

John cocks his head. “No?”

Matt grits his teeth. “That’s pathetic, John.”

“Whoa whoa whoa.” John reaches out to snag at the sleeve of Matt’s hoodie, reels him in before he can throw up his arms and stomp out of the room. Not that there’s been a precedent set for dramatic exits or anything. And he should really know by now not to try to be funny when there’s not a gun pointed at his head or a fucking terrorist to subdue. “Got a secondary proposal.”

Matt makes a face, but stands stiffly in John‘s embrace and doesn‘t try to squirm away. “Can’t wait.”

“Why don‘t we… buy a new house?”

“What?”

John huffs out a breath. “Pretty simple statement, Matthew. Why. Don’t. We. Buy. A--”

“I heard you,” Matt says softly. “You’d… what? You’d sell this house?”

John shrugs. “It’s not big enough. I either sell it or we kill each other. I dunno, I just figure I’d like to have you around for a while.”

“A while, huh?”

“Yeah. Maybe the next thirty or forty years.”

Matt pulls away, runs a hand through his hair. “But… this house! It’s… there’s that extension to the back porch that you put on the first year you were married. And the shutters that you made. And oh man, that pole in the basement with all the notches on it from measuring Jack and Lucy when they were little. It’s just… so many memories, John.”

John reaches out, tugs Matt against his body and smiles when this time he doesn‘t protest. This time his arms wind around John’s shoulders and he relaxes into John‘s touch. “I think it’s time to make new memories.”

“That.” Matt snorts out a laugh, reaches up to smooth a hand across John’s scalp. “Oh man, McClane. That is SO cheesy.”

“Yeah, what the fuck ever,” John says. “So? Do you accept my proposal? ‘Cause I ain’t gettin’ down on bended knee, kid.”

Matt’s face splits into a slow, easy smile. “I accept,” he says. “Oh! And you know, I have some sites bookmarked on my… I mean, they’re mostly apartment sites, from when I was… when I first moved in and I thought I’d be moving out when my leg… from before--”

“Before you seduced me with your understated charms?”

“Oh. Oh wow, love that revisionist history, McClane. I seem to recall that it was YOU who threw me down on the bed like some kind of troglodyte--”

“Your leg had just given out!”

“Okay, yes, true. That is true. And you know, clearly the best way to help me with that was to climb on top of me.”

John arches a brow. “I was _trying_ to hike you further up on the bed. You were fucking dead weight.”

“Right, okay. And then you put your hands all over me, touching me, until I was practically delirious--”

“That was a massage, kid.”

“Uh huh. Really. Your hands. All over me! What was I supposed to do?”

“Well. Gotta say, sticking your tongue in my mouth was a pretty fucking big surprise.”

“Huh. Really? ‘Cause you didn’t really seem all that surprised, John.”

“One thing you learn when you get to my age is to go with the flow. And not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Yeah, I…” Matt cocks his head. “What does that even mean?”

“Means I got my merit badge too, kid.”

* ~ * ~ *

John and the realtor think the new house is pretty much perfect. Matt bitches on his first visit when he sees all the stairs, but he changes his mind when he starts envisioning ripping down walls on the top floor to create a master suite, including ensuite and whirlpool tub.

“It’ll be great for my knee _and_ your shoulder,” Matt enthuses. John has opened his mouth to complain about the hassle and cost of renovations, but then he realizes there are lots more interesting things to do in a tub that size than soak a bad arm.

Matt is even more rhapsodic over the finished basement, planning a subterranean geek paradise. John agrees, but makes Matt promise _never_ to call it a command center.


End file.
